


A Study In Flesh

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Backstory, Bathing/Washing, Bickering, Captain John Watson, Caretaker Sherlock, Deductions, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, For Science John, Friends to Lovers, Groping, Hurt John Watson, Idiots in Love, John Had a Bad Childhood, John Watson is a Saint, John Watson's Childhood, John's Childhood, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Skin to skin, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sponge bath, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>When John gets severely wounded doing The Work, the roles are reversed; Sherlock has to take care of John.<br/></b><br/>Tension runs high as they are forced to embrace new levels of intimacy they had previously avoided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Letting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of the gunshot rings in John’s ears and time seems to stretch out around him. Everything slows. He looks down at the deep red stain blooming on his blue jumper and considers it, like an impassive observer.

The sound of the gunshot rings in John’s ears and time seems to stretch out around him. Everything slows. He looks down at the deep red stain blooming on his blue jumper and considers it, like an impassive observer.

He touches his fingertips to the stain.

 _Blood… My blood._ His jaw clenches. 

“Oh, god…”

The sudden rush of pain overwhelms John; bullet searing through his flesh, muscle tearing, nerves on fire. He staggers backwards. Everything is moving rapidly now; swirling, crashing, screeching.

The world closes in around him and his knees give way. “Sher - ”

Sherlock springs at John, his long arms closing around John’s waist as he crumples. They sink to the floor together and Sherlock lowers John to the wooden boards. 

“John! John?” Sherlock shouts. In the silence that follows Sherlock can hear his own heart beating rapidly in his ears. Sherlock crouches over John, his hands moving feverishly over John’s torso, flinging open his coat to find the wound. 

_Small hole. Large stain. Spreading exponentially. Rapid blood loss._

“Oh… Oh… No. No. No. John.” Sherlock’s hands work lightning quick, moving around John’s abdomen between John’s jumper and coat. 

_No blood on his back. Bullet still inside._

Sherlock hesitates a moment then pushes up John’s bloody jumper to reveal his abdomen. He begins trembling and rocks back on his heels; hands habitually steepleing and touching his lips. He can taste John’s blood. 

_Blood spurting. Pulsating flow. Bright red color. Damaged artery._

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.” Sherlock presses his palms to the sides of his head. He rapidly stands up, turns a circle then crouches back down next to John again. He pulls his useless phone out of his pocket, stares at it blankly, then throws it across the room. 

“Help me, John. I don’t know what to do, John.” Sherlock utters frantically, angrily. His hand tremble over the wound. John’s blood gushes over pale skin. Sherlock’s eyes burn, his vision blurs with tears.

Sherlock thrusts his face close to John’s. “John! Wake up and help me, John!” 

John’s eyes shoot open. His teeth clench. He chokes out some ragged breaths, then utters a low pained growl. Sherlock draws back, taking a sharp breath. Deep blue eyes focus in on Sherlock’s ice blue. 

“John. I don’t know how to _save lives_. Tell me how to _save you_. I need you, John,” Sherlock’s voice brakes. He pauses, pressing his lips together and setting his chin. He fills his voice with the low, stiff tone of a command. “Tell me how to save your life, Dr. Watson.”

John reaches up and grasps Sherlock’s scarf.  
“Th-This,” John chokes out. His voice is raspy and not much more than breath. 

Sherlock whips off his scarf, pressing it into John’s hands.

“Here.” John sputters. His breathing is labored. He grabs Sherlock’s hand placing it on the scarf and thrusting them both down onto his wound. “Press hard,” John barks through clenched teeth. He groans as Sherlock presses the scarf down onto the wound. His fingers grip tightly on the hem of Sherlock’s coat and his eyes roll back.

“What else?” Sherlock snaps, bringing his face closer to John’s again. His eyes burn, hot tears threatening to break free. He blinks them back, tries to focus. “What else, John?”

“If... stop... breathing, ” John says haltingly. His eyes are pressed closed. His features are contorted in pain. “CPR.” 

Sherlock’s mind turns smaller and smaller circles.  


_I need him to stay awake. I need him to stay. I need him. Him_

“John? John! Stay with me, John.”

“Can’t…” John’s eyes flutter as if they are fighting some invisible force to stay open. His limbs contract and twitch. He loses his grip on Sherlock’s coat, tries to clutch it again and fails. His body heaves beneath Sherlock’s hands. 

Then John is still.


	2. Wound Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  **After John is shot in the abdomen and Sherlock forces him to come back to 221B for recovery Sherlock must to tend John's wound.**   
>  **Sherlock is Sherlock - sometimes tender and sometimes 'a bit not good'.**   
> 

“Take it off, John.” Sherlock commands flatly as he storms into the small bedroom.

“What?”

“Your shirt, John,” Sherlock bites the words off. “I need to check the bandage.” As he briskly turns his back to John, his long blue house coat twirls around him, churning up dust into the streams of sunlight cutting through the room. 

John rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Ok. Alright.” He sighs and pulls himself more upright in the narrow bed. He casts the sheet over his lap and props himself into a sitting position. He hesitates a moment, glancing over at Sherlock. 

Sherlock stands facing the table across the room. He is meticulously rearranging the tray with fresh gauze, tape, a medicated paste and a disinfectant cleaning solution. He gives no indication that he is listening or paying any attention to John. 

John works his t-shirt off with some deep breaths; trying to stifle his own grunts and groans that seems to echo in the too quiet room. Every minor movement envelopes his body in screaming pain. At last freeing himself from the t-shirt, he uses it to wipe away the sweat that has trickled down his face and chest, then tosses it aside.

“I could probably do this myself, you know.” John says breathlessly. He runs his hand lightly over the bandage on his now bare torso and grimaces in pain. “I _am_ a bloody doctor.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock turns to face him, tray in hand. “You can’t even reach it properly.” 

John sighs heavily.

Sherlock places the tray next to him on the bed and sits down facing him. John shifts away. Sherlock pauses for a moment, pursing his lips. His brow furrows and his eyes narrow slightly as he runs them over John. John clears his throat and shifts again.

Sherlock turns his eyes to the tray, continuing to adjust the contents. “I’m sorry, but this is going to cause quite a lot of pain, John,” Sherlock states flatly. John’s eyebrows arch. 

“Pain.” John snorts. He cocks his head to the side then squints his eyes at Sherlock. “Yep. That’s fairly _obvious_.” He sniffs loudly and tenses his muscles, studying the wall across the room.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s lips tense slightly and his frown deepens. He gives a short nod, then turns his attention to the bandage. “On with it then.”

Sherlock’s slender fingers spend several moments tentatively probing the edges of the bandage, searching for an uplifted edge. John can not see what Sherlock is doing bent over his lap, he can only feel the occasional brush of finger tips and Sherlock’s warm breath across his abdomen, shallow and steady. He begins to feel irritation prickling at the back of his neck as the moments draw out. 

“If you don’t want to do it…” John’s voice is edgy. Sherlock lets out an annoyed huff. “I just mean if you aren’t comfortable… I can get Sarah or someone…” 

Sherlock bolts upright meeting John’s gaze with eyes that are dark and narrowed. His lips curl slightly. He lifts his chin and John can see a disturbing glint in his eyes. 

In one quick fluid motion, executed with cold precision, Sherlock’s right hand clamps on to John’s stomach at the same time his left finger and thumb snatch the uplifted corner of the tape. He unceremoniously rips the bandage off. 

John sucks in a sharp breath, nearly coming off the bed as his body clenches with the stinging pain that radiates through every nerve. He feels as if he has been ripped in two. Only Sherlock’s hand, firmly on his stomach, keeps him from becoming airborne. 

“Son of a…” John mutters through clenched teeth. Every nerve in his body screams in chorus.

“I’m use to working with _corpses_ , John.” Sherlock quips smugly over the other man's sounds of suffering. “They complain far less.” 

John slams a tightly clenched fist into the bed and then locks eyes on Sherlock. Under a furrowing brow the ex-soldier’s eyes are glassy and burning with pure rage. His chin juts, lips stretch tight and his mouth is turning up at the corners like a smile. Sherlock knows better. This is John’s _murderous smile_.This means the ex-soldier is well and truly angry. Never is John Watson closer to killing a man then when this semblance of a smile is on his face.

_An animal bearing it’s teeth. Displaying it’s willingness and aptitude to spill blood._

Beneath his hand, Sherlock can feel John’s rapid breathing and his stomach muscles still spasming with the aftermath of the tidal wave of pain he’s just inflicted. He subtly spreads his fingers out on John’s stomach as if this might calm him or at least create a sufficient grip on his midsection to slow him down should he try to lunge at him. Sherlock knows, skilled as he is, he has survived their previous encounters only by John’s lack of commitment to killing him.

John’s eyes narrow slightly. Water escapes the outside corners and cuts paths to his square chin where they meet and drip to his chest. 

John is imagining various ways of harming Sherlock. Strangulation is a favorite. His hands around Sherlock’s long white neck tightening until he hears the snap. 

As if he can sense John's thoughts, Sherlock swallows hard. 

“Worst over now.” Sherlock’s voice is silvery and light, trying to sound chipper. He purses and shifts his lips to one side in the way that perhaps only John recognizes means he has suddenly become self-aware and is slightly embarrassed by his own unacceptable behavior. 

John turns his head away to look at the wall, trying to regain his temper. 

Sherlock waits until he notes John’s muscles and breathing relaxing, then withdraws his hand and leans over John. He carefully cleans the outer edges of the wound with a cotton swab soaked in disinfectant.

As the anger drains away, John feels a deep exhaustion settling over him. The air in the room seems heavy and is full of the rich musty scent of Sherlock overlaid with the sharp smell of antiseptic. Both are familiar to John, but the scents mingling together make John queasy. Familiar in all the _wrong ways._

“John,” Sherlock reproaches after a time. John blinks and turns to his friend. Sherlock leans back so that he can see that a small mirror has been propped in the injured man's lap so that he can view his wound for himself. The doctor's eyes brighten.

‘Oh, yes.“ John remarks stretching his torso a bit and angling the mirror to get a better look. “It’s nasty… but… you can see it’s trying to heal.” He nods at Sherlock and smiles earnestly. “Well done then.” It is, perhaps, the only kind words that have passed between the two in days.

A smile flickers across Sherlock’s face and his cheeks flush slightly before he recovers his typical emotionally neutral countenance. 

Sherlock turns to the tray to prepare the ointment; squeezing a small dab of the medicated paste onto a cotton ball. He pauses a moment to lock eyes and nod at John. This will be the worst part.

Sherlock begins to dab the wound. John’s fists clench around the bed sheet as pain blazes through him. Each delicate touch of the cotton swab to the nerves surrounding the wound is agony. Sweat forms on John's brow and he feels his cheeks flush with heat. 

In the hospital he would have morphine to dull the pain. When he chose to go home he had done so knowing he would have to recover without the pain killers. He couldn’t risk bringing drugs like that into the apartment with Sherlock’s history of drug problems. He'd given the prescription to Lastrade to destroy. When Sherlock asked him about it he had simply said ‘I am a doctor and a soldier. I can handle it’

Now he doubts he can handle the full force of the pain, a thought he detests.

“Deep breaths.” Sherlock reminds John solidly, not looking up from his work on his wound. John focuses his eyes on the back of that dark, disheveled head. He wants to grab a hand full of those black curls and rip them out. The world is taking on a tinge of red and his vision is starting to blur on the edges.

“Breathe, John.” Sherlock insists sharply. He turns to look up into the injured man's face. 

John spits out air. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the moment Sherlock’s reticent blue eyes turned on him. He chokes down a ragged breath but he feels the darkness closing in. He knows he is fainting.

_Do people really do that?_

When they are in a _hell-of-a-lot-of_ pain they apparently do. 

“Stay with me, John.” Sherlock’s voice drifts in from far away. John thinks he feels a hand on his neck. He is slipping into a black hole and he is clawing himself through the thickening darkness with waves of pain swallowing his voice and his vision. He strains to speak, to call out, “Sherl…” He nearly fights his way back to Sherlock, but then, like a wave with a crest too tall to make it over, darkness crashes down onto him and he tumbles away into unconsciousness.  



	3. Blood Letting

John jerks awake. The fog clears from his brain slowly as he takes in the fact the bedroom has grown dark and Sherlock is no longer in front of him. His hand goes to his side; fingers lightly tracing the fresh bandage. 

_Sherlock finished dressing his wound while he was passed out._

He muses to himself that perhaps he can just have the detective give him a good knock to the head to put him out next time too. He snorts, considering that perhaps Sherlock might get _too much_ enjoyment out of knocking him out.

His eyes fall on his t-shirt on the edge of the bed and he strains towards it.

“No.” Sherlock’s low voice rumbles in the still of the room. John’s eyes flick to the doorway and find his friend, bare to the waist, wearing only his dress trousers and belt. In one hand he holds a pitcher and in the other he holds an empty basin with a large yellow sponge visible over the rim. John’s mouth falls open. 

In all the years that they lived together John can count on one hand the amount of times he has seen his companion in anything less than a full suit or pajamas and house coat. Ironically the only other time he can recall having seen this much of Sherlock’s bare skin is at the Palace. 

“Don’t put the shirt on, John.” 

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock turns his back. He sits the basin on the table and begins pouring water from the pitcher into it. For a second John finds himself engrossed in studying that pale back which, like most things with Sherlock, has a strange juxtaposition of bones too sharp and angular beneath skin too smooth and pale. Marred by the slightly raised criss-cross of scars from those missing years. When John realizes he is staring he clears his throat and quickly looks away.

“Time for a good wash, John.” Sherlock calls over his shoulder.

“Uh, no,” John retorts flatly, straining towards the shirt again. Sherlock turns to face him holding the basin full of water with the sponge in it. His face is fixed in cool determination and John knows there is very little good in arguing with _that_ expression. Still, he puts up a valiant effort.

“You are not going to wash me-” John growls jabbing a finger in Sherlock’s direction. The detective begins talking rapidly over top of John. Neither man is willing to relent. 

“The discharge instructions clearly state-”

“I am a doctor, I think I bloody know- ”

“Bacteria can get into the wound-”

“I am fully capable-”

“…Increased chances for a need for additional hospitalizations.”

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut; waiting for John to come to the end of his rant. 

“…I am _not_ a bloody invalid!” John roars his conclusion and glowers at Sherlock who stares back with his typical algid impatient gaze. The two men glare at each other a long moment.

“You _stink_ , John.” Sherlock enounces flatly. 

John scoffs. He shakes his head and stares at the opposite wall a moment. Then he sniffs loudly and looks back at Sherlock. 

“Fine.” John growls. _There isn’t much point trying to win an argument against Sherlock Holmes._

A slight smile pulls at the corners of Sherlock’s lips as he strides towards John. 

John closes his eyes and tries to push aside the thought of his fist busting those lips open. 

“Back first.” Sherlock says plucking the pillow from behind John’s back. Before John has a chance to protest Sherlock has sprung up onto the bed positioning himself in the space left between John and the headboard. Sherlock crouches down balancing the basin on his knee. He stares down at John’s back, his eyes drawn to the smooth tight skin of the scar on his left shoulder blade. Sherlock’s mind automatically begins to read the “crime scene” the scar tells. 

>   
>  _Scar. Left shoulder. Wound size indicates; High caliber rifle, long range. Likely a sniper.”_

John cleares his throat loudly prompting Sherlock to plop the sponge on John’s left shoulder so suddenly that John jerks in surprise at the sensation. He shudders as warm water runs over his back. Goose bumps rise across John’s arms and legs. 

With the sponge in his right hand, Sherlock moves it slowly across the muscles of John’s left shoulder. Wetted, the newer tissue of the scar seems to gleam against the rougher texture of the rest of his skin. Sherlock hesitates, then lightly runs the fingers of his left hand through the wet path and over the now slick scar. 

> _Ragged edges. Indicates tearing. Skin pulling away from the wound. Likely a result of continuing to work without treatment after receiving the wound. Amount of tearing indicates several hours._

Sherlock quickly runs the sponge over the muscles of John’s right shoulder, that is naked of scars, chasing the sponge’s path with a delicate stroke from his fingers to confirm the visual inspection. 

He moves his attention to the lower back. Dipping and wringing out the sponge, he moves it slowly from the outer side in towards the spine, revealing a gleaming array of smooth tight scars. His fingers brush over them. 

> _Several scars. Large spread. Varying sizes. Jagged edges. Shrapnel. Higher concentration of scars at lower back indicates explosion from below. IED likely. Spread also indicates explosion going up and over. Indicates hunching - using self in effort to shield something/someone from the explosion._

John had been shielding someone. 

Sherlock’s insides twinge. 

“What are you muttering about?” John asks impatiently. 

“Not now, John,” Sherlock snaps. John sighs. Sherlock narrows his eyes, studying the back of John’s head. 

Sherlock winces. In his head, he can hear John’s voice speaking his name in the way he knows means that has been unintentionally hurtful; part warning, part disappointment it always halts Sherlock in his tracks. Sherlock is acutely aware that John never gives him that warning when it comes to himself, only when it comes to protecting others. 

Sherlock turns his mind back to the clues. He closes his eyes and focuses in on moving all the pieces together. 

> _Conclusion: John was shot by a sniper. Likely in a combat zone of some sort. Intense combat resulting in constant onslaught of wounded. Though wounded himself, he continued to work, providing medical attention to other wounded soldiers. When the IED exploded he threw himself over his patient to protect him._

John clears his throat again. “Can we maybe speed this up a bit, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. He quickly finishes, tracing each swath of muscles of John’s back first with the sponge then with a stroke from his fingers. 

> _Further scars along lower back confirm conclusion._

Sherlock places the sponge in the basin and leans back to look over the wet flesh. It is a strong back - one that clearly belongs to a soldier - tight coils of muscles indicate he is always prepared for a fight.

> _Fascinating. John’s story is written all over his flesh._  
> 

This delights Sherlock; unraveling John Watson like a crime scene. He is hungry for more clues. 

Holding the basin in one hand, he stands up and leaps down from the bed. He is practically dancing as he quickly wedges the pillow in its previous location between John and the headboard, twirls around and comes to rest on the bed facing John. Sherlock places the basin in front of himself, beside John’s hip. John draws back.

“What’s with the…” John stops, he clears his throat and wets his lips. He gestures at Sherlock’s bare chest and then places his hand on his opposite arm and continues in a lower voice. “Where’s _your_ shirt?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, considering John. His eyes narrow as he takesat in all the details. 

> _Muscles tense, small frown, cheeks slightly flushed, right arm crossing chest with his hand holding his upper left arm. Signs of discomfort, embarrassment and self-protection._

“No need to get my best house coat wet.” Sherlock says dismissively. He briskly takes the sponge from the basin and rings it out, eager to get on with his investigation. 

“Hold on,” John says slowly as he watches Sherlock. His eyes narrow. “Weren’t you wearing pajamas before?” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly, and he presses his lips together.

John smiles and sits back against the pillow. “I’m not as slow as you think, Sherlock.” 

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Sherlock says smiling slightly.

In spite of the thrill of gleaning one observance that Sherlock did not intend him to make, John admits to himself he can’t draw a deduction from it. Sherlock’s behavior is so erratic - his logic so foreign - that John dares not to try and follow it. 

Sherlock begins at John’s right shoulder moving the sponge down the muscles of his thick upper arm, then tracing the path with tips of his fingers. 

John watches Sherlock’s unusual method with concern. 

“Wait. What - why are you doing it _that way_?” John looks from his arm to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock does not look up nor respond. He has the far away stare that is all too familiar to John.

>   
>  _Muscles formation not quite right. Likely compensating for bone broken that was not set properly. Level of aberration indicates it happened when bones were not yet fully formed. Conclusion: Upper arm broken at young age. Likely lack of proper medical care._  
> 

Sherlock wets the bottom of the arm, armpit to elbow, with the sponge. When he begins to trace the path with his fingertips, John jerks away. 

“Oi!” John’s voice is nearly a yelp. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he draws back.

“What?” Sherlock looks mystified. 

“Your hand!” John places his own hand over the arm Sherlock had been touching. 

“Yes,” Sherlock asks impatiently. 

John’s eyes narrow. Sometimes he feels certain that Sherlock is being purposely obtuse. 

“That’s not the way you give a mate a wash,” John growls 

Sherlock straightens. “There is nothing _wrong_ with my methods-”

“You’re bloody _stroking_ my arm -” John interjects in an angry whisper. 

Then they are arguing over each other again; John’s voice swinging wildly between angry threats and raging shouts while Sherlock rattles on matter factly in an even tone.

“…Touch has been scientifically proven to promote healing-”

“I swear to God if you are messing with me-”

“…Increase in oxytocin and decrease in cortisol-”

“… One of your bloody experiments-”

“…Stimulate blood flow and immune response-”

“Just give me the goddamn sponge!” John lunges for the sponge which Sherlock easily dodges out of his reach. Pain shoots through John and he wheels back, clutching his abdomen. He stays for a moment gritting his teeth; head tipped back and staring at the ceiling while trying to breath. 

Sherlock looks on, with his usual reserved expression. 

>   
>  _Perhaps later I will slip something into John’s tea to ease the pain._  
> 

John brings his head forward and glares at Sherlock again. 

“Don’t be difficult, John.” Sherlock’s voice is deep and laced with exasperation.

John jerks back; his face contorting in shock and indignation. “ _Difficult?_ I’m not the one who’s _difficult_ , Sherlock!” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Let me continue, John.” 

John looks Sherlock over warily. _Clearly there is more going on here than a wash._ John can’t follow what Sherlock is after but he knows Sherlock will be relentless in hassling him until he has satisfaction and, in spite of better judgement, he trusts the man. John tosses his hands up in defeat

“Ok. Ok. _Fine_.” He eyes Sherlock cautiously. 

“Relax, John. You’re tired. Rest your eyes.” 

John snorts. “Like I can bloody do that when you’re-” John snaps his mouth close without finishing. He gives Sherlock a glare that warns him not to say anything. Then slowly he closes his eyes and leans his head back. His face is tense and his hand works beside him; clenching and unclenching. 

Sherlock watches John for a moment then goes back to work; warm sponge followed by precise finger tips. 

>   
>  _No break in left arm. Sports unlikely. Fall unlikely. Wrong arm. Dominant arm would break. When you play sports or brace a fall you use the dominant arm._  
> 

Sherlock traces John’s collar bone with the sponge, then a stroke of his finger tips. John shutters. 

“Sorry.” John gives a quick, strained laugh. He opens his eyes, fixing them on the opposite wall. “It’s _fine_. I’ll be _fine_ ,” He mutters to himself straightening his arms and pulling back his shoulders. 

Sherlock glances at him with slight annoyance and keeps going.  


>   
>  _Collarbone broken at young age too._  
> 

A thought suddenly occurs to Sherlock. He takes John’s right hand into his own. He strokes the back of the hand with the sponge, then runs his fingertips along the path. He opens John’s palm and does the same. He can feel mangled bones beneath the flesh. 

>   
>  _Location of breaks indicates defensive injury._  
> 

“Hmmm.”

“Yes?” John waits impatiently for Sherlock to explain. Sherlock doesn’t respond. He methodically moves down John’s chest, fingertips chasing sponge until he gets to John’s ribs. 

“Now that just tickles” John reaches to shield his ribs. Sherlock swats him away absently.

>   
>  _More breaks. Lower ribs. Fists unlikely. Location indicates large boot when a small child._  
> 

Sherlock places the sponge in the basin. He rocks back and closes his eyes, he rests the tips of his fingers together, lightly touching his lips. 

> _Conclusion: Abused as a child by someone much larger. Likely parent. Force and severity of breaks makes it likely a father figure. Broke several bones. Domestic abuse explains lack of treatment. Most damage done when he was trying to protect someone from the father’s abuse, hence defensive breaks and in a pattern consistent with being kicked and punched from above while huddling over someone. Likely his sister, Harriet. Trying to spare her. Likely alcohol involved. Explains current family dysfunction. Harriet grew up to be an alcoholic just like their father, John feels angry and guilty for failing to “save” her._  
> 

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock eyes pop open and focus in on a startled John. 

“What? What do you see?” John’s face looks tense.

“You,” Sherlock says with a warm smile, his eyes gleaming. “I see _you_ , John.”


	4. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Magnetism... Forces of attraction... I don't like _people_ , John... Men. Women. In general, they have no appeal... _They_ bore me. _They_ often... _repel_ me." Sherlock's eyes slowly move over John. He can feel his own heart thumping in his skull. He speaks his next words forcefully. "I'm not attracted to _people_ , John." He hesitates, then hovers his hand over John's leg. He can feel the heat. His voice is deep and rumbles in his throat. "I'm just attracted to _you_ , John." He lowers his hand and lets his fingers spread out onto John's leg.

The bedroom is still. 

John feels himself struggling to control his own breathing. He puts his hand on his neck and strokes the nape. He feels a sharp uneasiness, like panic, churning up inside him. 

Sherlock's eyes, enlivened with the thrill of discovery, flick over John, taking him all in. "Oh, this is brilliant, John!" Sherlock gushes. He claps his hands together. "Let's see what else there is to deduce." Sherlock grabs the sheet over John's lap and whips it off before John can protest.

It doesn't take a trained observant eye to note the way John's pajama bottoms are prominently tented at the groin, nor a deductive genius to understand what that means.

"Oh." Sherlock breathes. He turns back towards John and his face freezes in perplextion; eyebrows arching, brow furrowing, mouth turning slightly down at the corners. His eyes are glazed over and unseeing. 

"Don't -" John begins angrily as he snatches a nearby throw pillow and clutches it to his lap. He stops short upon recognizing the futility of arguing when he sees the familiar look in Sherlock’s eyes that indicates he has already retreated into his own mind to work it all out. 

This infuriates John. He is left to wait and imagine what Sherlock is piecing together in that gigantic brain of his; not even permitting John a word in his defense. 

John wants to shout at Sherlock, _'I told you to stop touching me! I warned you. Why can't you listen?'_

Long minutes pass. John's frustration wanes into desperation to escape. He is plotting how to make it to the door when Sherlock's voice resumes like a hiss.

"So..." Sherlock draws out the words. "I've aroused you, John." Sherlock does a small flourish spreading his fingers wide then interlacing them below his chin. He draws his legs up to sit Indian style on the bed and rests his elbows on his knees as he stares at John. John feels ill and lightheaded.

"No," John chides. He stops himself, readjusts and begins again in a more deliberately even tone. "No, it's not _that."_

"What is it then, John?" Sherlock's voice is smooth and even, devoid of emotional direction.

John tucks his chin and tips it to the side. Even the way Sherlock speaks his name grades on his nerves. It feels to John like something is crawling under his skin

John's voice drops. "I just haven't-" John clears his throat and wets his lips. He looks away. "- I haven't been... touched in awhile and-"

"I touch you all the time" Sherlock interjects in a slightly offended tone.

"No." John locks eyes on Sherlock a moment. The curl of his lip speaks of amusement, but his eyes hold a challenge. "No, you don't..." 

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. 

"And not like _that._ " John looks away again. "That was a bit more..." John's face contorts as he grapples for the right word. "Intimate." He winces and rubs his face vigorously "More... than I have had in awhile." 

John swallows hard, resisting the urge to look at Sherlock. He can feel Sherlock's unyielding eyes boring into him. 

Sherlock considers John's words a moment. He looks at his left hand and rubs his thumb against his middle finger in slow circles. It is still damp and he can still feel the burning sensation in his fingertips. 

It took some time but Sherlock built up a tolerance to that burning sensation that occurs whenever his skin touches John's. He volleys between ignoring or avoiding it and finding ways to initiate and test it. 

_Allergic reaction? Chemical? Something to do with acidity and PH levels?_

He already considered all these factors before and eliminated them. He doesn't understand _this_. He does not like _not_ understanding.

He touches his finger to his lips, the heat seems to spread. He turns his eyes back on John.

"I see," Sherlock acknowledges flatly. John leans back, his eyes wide with surprise. He looks Sherlock over.

"You do?" 

Sherlock pauses. "There was an input of stimulus which correlated to previous sexual encounters. You, being a physically fit male of a certain sexual appetite, find yourself in an _uncomfortable_ position…” As he speaks, Sherlock’s eyes work their way over John, taking in his face, shoulders, chest, arms. It has a softer, more casual quality than his typical pointed assessments, but it is no less unnerving for John. Sherlock eyes now rest on the pillow clutched to John's lap and John feels as if Sherlock can see right through it. John shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. 

“Your body responded... _automatically,_ " Sherlock concludes lightly, his eyes flicking back up to meet John's.

"Yes." John's tone is guarded. He stares back at Sherlock cautiously.

"It was out of your control." Sherlock spreads his fingers and shrugs in an exaggerated expression of casualness. He pauses for John's agreement. 

"Yes," John agrees. His eyes narrow on Sherlock suspiciously.

Sherlock continues in a sing-song voice. His eyes rolled to the ceiling "Could have been _anyone_ touching you and you'd have the _same_ reaction."

John adjusts his jaw. There is a trap here and he can see Sherlock is enjoying laying it for him. 

"Could have been, say... _Lestrade_. Touching. _You_..." Sherlock punctuates each word like it is a needle he is driving into John. He pauses to allow John's mind play on the idea. John cringes and his top lip curls over his teeth as he is assaulted by the imagery of Lestrade stroking his arm as Sherlock had. "Or... _Anderson_. Touching. You..." John shudders. "Or... _Mrs. Hudson_ -" 

"Oh, god, stop!"John presses his eyes closed and puts up his hand up. 

"-Or _Mycroft_..." Sherlock continues over John's protests. The look of disgust on John’s face intensifies and John swallows. 

"Yep... _That_ did it.... Just got a little sick in my mouth."John works his tongue across his teeth and coughs. He clutches his side for the strain the cough has on his wound. 

Sherlock snorts. He stands up, strolling to the table across the room and returns with a glass of water. Amusement lingers on his face as he holds it out to John.

John looks up at him in surprise.

"Mycroft has the same effect on me." Sherlock muses nodding towards the glass of water in his outstretched hand.

John chuckles and takes the glass. 

"Thank you," John murmurs quietly. Sherlock sits down on the bed facing John. There is silence for a moment as John gulps down the entire glass of water. Sherlock raises his eyebrows as John hands the empty glass back to him and casually places the glass on the floor beside the bed.

John shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to speak and risk continuing down the dangerous path of analyzing what is happening beneath the throw pillow in his lap. The silence feels unbearable, full of knowing, so he opts to shift to something lighter.

"You _do_ enjoy torturing me," John laughs. He is trying to speak naturally but the water has done nothing to wash away the knot in his stomach.

"Mmmm. It passes the time." Sherlock shrugs with a faint smile.

John allows himself to look Sherlock over. Usually so stiff and guarded, John considers he now looks more relaxed than he's seen him... perhaps ever. One knee is propped up, he is leaning forward and his lips form a faint smile. Not his smug or mischievous smile, this smile resembles pure contentment. Subtle as it is, it lights his whole face. His eyes have softened and he is running a lingering gaze over John in a gentle and fond manner. This is the way Sherlock looks at John when they have just come out of a ridiculously dangerous situation and somehow managed to be standing there having a good laugh. Something of admiration and gratitude in Sherlock's look during those moments has always managed to carry John through Sherlock's blacker and more irritating moods.

Having Sherlock look at him this way now makes John's stomach clench. John feels his heart speed up. His eyes widen and he leans back.

"Listen, Sherlock..." John tries to keep his voice steady.

"You're not gay, John." Sherlock remarks flatly.

"Right..." John breathes. "Yeah... Good." John rubs his neck and shifts uncomfortably. Silence fills the room again. 

"Irish Setter." Sherlock is smiling faintly into his own knee.

"Irish Setter," John repeats slowly. "... Sorry, are we talking about dogs now?" John's voice is full of exasperation, but he is relieved for the change of topic.

"A specific breed of dog, John." Sherlock holds John's stare at moment, then turns his gaze to his fingertips again. "See, John you might not like dogs; might not be a 'dog person' they are messy and they smell and they require a lot of work. Maybe you prefer a different breed or maybe dogs aren't your area, John. You prefer cats. But one day you meet a dog, happens to be a Irish Setter, and this particular dog... it wiles its way into your affection and you find, over time, you care for it quite deeply." Sherlock pauses, looking up at John. John is surprised to see Sherlock's eyes appear watery. John swallows. His mouth feels dry again.

"I don't follow."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and his usual edge of frustration cuts into his voice. "Do try." He sighs and leans back for a moment, studying John. Then pulls himself closer to John on the bed. His voice dropping, he speaks quickly, feverishly.

"You don't have to like _dogs,_ John. You don't have to like _Irish Setters._ You can like this _one_ creature... This one _amazing_ creature... special enough that it just - it doesn't really matter what it is." 

Sherlock for a moment stares so intensely at John it is as if he thinks he might be able to crawl inside John's eyes and see John's thoughts. 

John stares blankly at Sherlock. He can't think of anything to say or do. He feels paralyzed and tingly all over. He has the sensation of those horrible moments when he's only half woken up and he can see everything but he can't do anything because his body refuses to move yet. 

Sherlock begins speaking slower.

"Magnetism... Forces of attraction... I don't like _people_ , John... Men. Women. In general, they have no appeal... _They_ bore me. _They_ often... _repel_ me." Sherlock’s eyes slowly move over John. He can feel his own heart thumping in his skull. He speaks his next words forcefully. "I'm not attracted to _people_ , John." He hesitates, then hovers his hand over John's leg. He can feel the heat. His voice is deep and rumbles in his throat. "I'm just attracted to _you_ , John." He lowers his hand and lets his fingers spread out onto John's leg.

John's mouth moves wordlessly for a moment. "It's _drugs_?" His voice is straining.

"Mmmm. In a way..." Sherlock muses thoughtfully. He begins to move his hand up John's leg letting himself feel the fire and electricity moving through his fingertips. "In their purest form drugs are just synthetic versions of chemical reactions that naturally occur in our body. Happiness, love, lust, ecstasy, are just a cascade of chemicals flooding our brains to manipulate our behavior. All artificially reproduced with the proper drug."

John's chin is trembling. His eyes are wide. "It's drugs. You've _given me_ drugs, haven't you? You've bloody _drugged me."_ John's voice escalates in alarm.

Sherlock sighs and he folds back into himself. His smile disappears. "Yes, of course," he affirms in a plastic tone. 

"Why?"John beseeches. He looks frantically at his arms which lay lifeless at his sides. It is as if they belong to someone else. Try as he might to command them to move, they just lay there. "Why? Why in _bloody hell_ did you do _this_?" John rants.

"Because only an _idiot_ thinks he can endure a near fatal gunshot wound to the abdomen without morphine." Sherlock glares at John. John's eyes widen as he recognizes the resentment on Sherlock's face. "Do you really think I am some rabid druggy that can't control myself enough to resist your prescribed morphine?"

"Is that what this is about? Some revenge? You poisoned me. You're trying to kill me?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock rolls his eyes. "If I wanted to kill you would already be dead. I was just... taking the edge off."

"I can't feel my arms, Sherlock!" John shouts near hysteria. He is breathing hard and his face is red. "I can't move my legs! I'm paralyzed, Sherlock! You've bloody paralyzed me!"

"Shhh! Give it a moment to metabolize." Sherlock appeases. He picks up the empty water glass from the floor and looks through it. He moves the glass back and forth so the small amount of remaining liquid coats the bottom. "I didn't expect you to drink the whole glass." Sherlock remarks thoughtfully to himself. "Concentration was a bit high. Slight miscalculation on my part." He turns his eyes on John. "Won't happen again."

John growls. He strains his neck forward and his fingers on his right hand twitch slightly. Nothing else moves. 

"I. Will. Kill you." John snarls. "I am going to... choke the life out of your Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock rises to his feet and carries the glass back to the table.

"Mmmm...Not for twenty minutes at least. The drug is turning off the pain centers of your brain, John. Within twenty minutes the paralysis will wear off. and you'll just feel...mmmm" Sherlock makes a twirling gesture with his hand "... a good buzz." Sherlock turns to face John. 

John can already feel the room starting to spin, everything gets brighter and the walls start to tremble. He can move his arms now but they still don't feel like like his own. Lumps of flesh.

"Now, John, you're going to feel pretty good, so let's not do anything stupid." 

"What could _we_ do that would be stupid?" John's speech is slow and deliberate but a bit slurred as if he is drunk. He is grinning. Sherlock watches John's head bobble.

"I feel..." John's hands go to his face.

"Yes?" 

"Odd." The word feels awkward in John's mouth. He repeats it to see if he could make it fit. "Odddd. Oooodd." He frowns. "Nope. I don't think that really is a word," he concludes.


	5. Experiments of the Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is wounded and Sherlock is caring for him at 221B. After their botched confession of mutal attraction, Sherlock starts experimenting to test John's reaction to him walking about the flat in various states of undress. This results in some uncomfortable/awkward moments with visitors and eventually John unraveling a bit.

About two weeks into John's recovery, he had at last gained the strength and the tolerance for the pain to trade the bedroom for the sitting room couch. It was at that time that Sherlock took to walking about the flat in various states of undress. Initially without his typical house coat, then a house coat but no shirt, and finally with only pajama bottoms. 

John quickly caught on that it was some sort of experiment when he noted Sherlock watching him with tempered interest. 

These uncharacteristic changes in wardrobe also seemed to include reasons, in Sherlock's typical elaborate and convoluted manner, to come in proximity to John or have some contact. A brush of hands when handing over a cup of tea, a dropped newspaper and bumping an arm against John's leg as he stood up. Sherlock's eyes always narrowed ever so slightly just after these incidents as he observed John, measuring his reaction.

To John it was just a minor irritation, and since he had little else to do, he allowed Sherlock his game. 

John thought he might tire of it in a day or two but day four found Sherlock bear to the waist in pajama bottoms when Mrs. Hudson entered the flat bearing groceries.

Sherlock had just finished re-dressing John's wound and so had taken the tray with all it's medical contents to the kitchen. John was sitting on the couch elbows on knees, head hung and breathing through the pain, yet to recover his shirt. 

She entered, calling out in a sing-song voice. John, upon hearing her, had guessed how the scene would be interpreted and had tried to recover his shirt

"Yoo-hoo. I have brought you boys some nibbles." She gave out a little squeak and dropped her bag of groceries when she saw Sherlock. Sherlock didn't even look up, instead tucking his chin slightly further down as he continued looking at the tray on the table. She turned away and her eyes fell on John. He was on the last three buttons of his shirt. Her eyes widened and her hand over her mouth did little to hide a knowing smile. John cringed.

"Mrs. Hudson, it's not -" John put up a hand.

"Oh dear... look at me, so rude... I should really knock," and she was back out the door about as fast as she'd come. John thought he saw a slight smile cross Sherlock's face.

"Well, there she goes again," John grumbled tossing his hands up in exasperation. "The whole block will be talking by days end." 

Sherlock continued rearranging the tray. 

The following evening it was Lestrade that came calling. He strode in the door with his usual distracted and concerned look, talking before he even entered the room. "Sherlock, we've got a bit of a-" He stopped, his eyes growing wide. Sherlock sat at the desk working on the computer, his face and bear chest illuminated in the eerie blue of the computer screen.

"Well, what have we got here?" Lestrade 

Sherlock rolled his eyes to Lestrade, his face set in apparent frustration. He slammed the laptop closed with a pronounced snap and glared at Lestrade . Lestrade drew in a sharp breath and pivoted away. Catching sight of John on the sofa he paused facing him. 

"Hello, John," He said slowly. "Everything all right?" His eyes narrowed and flicked in the direction of Sherlock, an eyebrow lifting in a question.

"Yes," John growled. He rolled his eyes and adjusted his jaw in the way both men understood meant 'Sherlock is being Sherlock.'

"Ok," Lestrade said slowly. He was obviously flustered. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, threw his chest out and rose up onto his tip toes briefly before turning away. "Well, I can see you're busy now. I'll come back later." John waited until he heard the door click shut before throwing himself back on the couch, head tipped back and one arm over his eyes. 

"God, Sherlock," John groaned. "No one's going to come around anymore... and everyone's going to think..." He let out a long breath. 

As if it wasn't hard enough to keep a girlfriend when Sherlock acted like a complete and total arse each time one was brought around, now everyone would take Sherlock's new odd behavior as conclusive evidence there was more between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson than flatmates and consulting detective work. John could see no chance of getting on with a woman now. 

John cringed and buried his face further in the crook of his elbow. That didn't even cover what things were already being whispered about the sudden absence of his wife.

His wound throbbed and he felt like he couldn't breathe just thinking about her. 

_Mary Elizabeth Watson. My lying, murdering wife... who betrayed me, shot me and fled into the night._

Hot tears ran down John's face, pooling where his face met his arm. His body was shaking.

"You're thinking about her." Sherlock's voice was soft and close. John pulled his arm down to see Sherlock crouched beside the couch next to his legs. His face looked a mixture of pain and concern. John was still trying to get used to a Sherlock that wasn't all cold indifference and disdain. At times like these he considered he missed how much easier it had been back then.

"You'll want to be shutting up now, Sherlock." John's usual growl was weak and broken with anguish, but his blood shot eyes warned Sherlock that rage was underneath that pain. John pulled his arm back over his face hoping, for once, Sherlock would back off. Sherlock chewed his bottom lip a moment. 

John felt the dip of the couch as Sherlock sat down beside him, his bare shoulder touching John's. John didn't move away. He didn't mind it this time. Focusing on that warm, non-intrusive touch made it a little easier to breathe. It felt like an anchor against a riptide of painful thoughts threatening to pull him away. There was silence for a long moment.

"I'm sorry, John." The break in Sherlock's voice was enough to make John pull his arm down and look him in the eyes. John was startled to find tears streaming down Sherlock's face. To John, Sherlock suddenly looked vulnerable and incredibly young. John sat back against the couch a little and let his arm drop, cocking his head to look Sherlock in the face. 

"I - I lead you into her path, John, and for that I am truly sorry." John sat there for a moment, stunned by the authenticity and emotion in Sherlock's voice. He cleared his throat, but still felt a tightness at the center of his chest. 

"You didn't-"

"If I hadn't left you..." Sherlock's eyes dropped and he swallowed. "You were alone..." Sherlock's lips trembled and he tried to press them together. His hands were shaking as he steepled them at his lips, his hair falling down over his eyes as he leaned forward, rocking a little. 

"Stop..." John was shaking too now. Seeing Sherlock cry made him feel like something was tearing loose inside him. He put his face in his hands and tipped his head back. "Now, just stop."

Sherlock's voice trembled as he looked at John. "You trusted me. I was less than deserving of that trust... I messed with that and the resulting consequences were mine alone to bear... but you did not deserve any of what occured." 

"Stop… Stop, Sherlock," John choked out. 

Sherlock started talking faster. "I should have known. I have been privy to how that feels, being utterly alone. That's was my state before - before you, but I didn't fully evaluate the situation. I didn't comprehend the outcome of my actions. I underestimate how detrimental my loss would be to you. It wasn't until I returned that I realized Moriarty had done exactly what he promised, burned the heart out of me. He was very clever, he made me do it to myself. I should have-"

"God, just-" One of John's hands clasped Sherlock behind the neck and the other grabbed his upper arm to hold him as John abruptly closed his mouth on Sherlock's. Sherlock inhaled sharply and stiffened for a moment then melted as John kissed him deeply and forcefully as if he meant to steal all the air from Sherlock lungs. After a moment John pushed away panting breathlessly. He glared at Sherlock, but Sherlock couldn't speak. John nodded then tipped his chin to the side in his most cheeky and flippant manner and said, “Right. I said shut up.” He leaned back on the couch and ground the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

Sherlock swallowed. He brushed his own fingertips over his lips that still burned for more. He looked at John appearing so conflicted and pained and his mind sputtered back online. 

"I - It’s just, I should have done a better job protecting you, John." John held up a warning finger and glared at Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth opened, then snapped shut with an audible click.

A mischievous smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips as the question hover there between them. _What was John willing to do next to make Sherlock shut up?_ John saw it all over Sherlock's face and he knew the man would do it. Like a toddler testing boundaries, Sherlock would really keep talking just to see how far John was willing to go to shut him up. 

“You’re bloody mad,” John said unable to hold back his own smile. John began to chuckle and Sherlock’s deeper laugh joined in. Soon John was clutching his side and crying from the pleasure and pain of laughing so hard. 

When the laughter faded they both rested back against the couch. Sherlock looked over at John and it pulled John right back to an ache that had abated for a brief moment. It was the always present agony that gnawed at him when he thought of the moment at the wedding after Sherlock had told him that Mary was pregnant and the expression on Sherlock's face was so painfully human. John looked away and inhaled deeply. 

“I'll get your pain medicine,” Sherlock stated getting to his feet. Without thinking John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he walked in front of him.

“Hey,” John said looking up at Sherlock. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say now that those sharp silver blue eyes locked on his and he could feel Sherlock's warmth, his pulse and his soft skin in his hand. “Thank you,” John said giving his wrist a gentle squeeze. Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Johns. There was heat building between them. Sizzling sparks of electricity bounded back and forth. “For everything, Sherlock,” John said softly. He let Sherlock's wrist go but held his stare and instant longer.

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously in a series when I was new to AO3 and still learning how to publish. I have now moved them all into this one chaptered story because it makes more sense to do it that way.
> 
> The series was named _Two Men Contemplating the Moon_ after the painting by Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840)
> 
>    
>  **"Two men gaze through a wood at the moon. They may have turned to the forest for a connection to the night or for the sounds, smell, and light of nature buried in the sweat and toil of day. They could have sought each other's intimacy, in the quiet of the night—apart from conversation that hardly knew when to stop. They have no weapons, but they could have sought adventure, swaggering in their broad hats and capes, confident in their powers to bring down their prey... They have stopped in their tracks, because they seek something farther and less attainable."**
> 
>   
>  \- _Anita Brookner: Romanticism and Its Discontents_


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